


A Tree in Winter Bears No Fruit

by Dumbothepatronus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Tragedy, pregnancy loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-02-29 18:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus
Summary: Draco and Hermione are so excited to be expecting their third child. Unfortunately, all does not go according to plan at their first prenatal appointment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Quidditch Leauge at fanfiction.net, with plans to be expanded eventually.

"I'm thinking a sort of vintage vibe. Sepia and cream wallpaper with a text print, and a border with Golden Snitches that fly about the background."

Hermione shook her head. "Draco. Why is it always Quidditch with you?"

His lips jutted out in an adorable pout. "Just once I'd like to have the nursery give a nod to the best sport ever invented."

Draco wrapped his arms around Hermione's still-flat belly and rubbed his pale hands over her blouse in a soothing motion. "Isn't that right, little guy? Wouldn't you love a beautiful little Snitch floating around your bedroom?"

Hermione smiled as she ran her finger over the pale wood slats of the crib that had cradled her two sons. The memory of their sweet, sleeping bodies flashed through her mind and hit her with a wave of longing nostalgia. Soon. Soon this crib and her heart would be filled all over again.

"It might not be a boy this time. I've been sicker than I was with Scorpius or Leo. They say that girls will do that to you. More estrogen, you know."

Draco rolled his eyes. "More Muggle wives' tales, I think you mean."

Hermione took a deep breath to fuel a well-researched lecture about hormone levels and scientific studies, but she was interrupted before she even began by the nursery door being yanked open.

"What is the meaning of this?" Narcissa Malfoy's sharp stilettos stabbed into the floorboards as she marched into the room, brandishing that morning's copy of  _The Daily Prophet_. She threw it down onto the changing table and jabbed her finger at a second-page article. "These traditions are traditions for a reason. Do you have any idea how improper—"

Draco waved his hands dismissively. "Really, Mother. The only reason wizards normally delay the announcement of pregnancy until the second trimester is for fear of miscarriage. Hermione is nine weeks along—the largest danger has passed. She's no more likely to lose the baby now than she is in two months' time."

"Besides," Hermione said, "The papers were already publishing wild speculations. You can only appear pale-faced and nauseous in public so many times before people begin to take notice."

"Well, I don't like it. It's a shameful display."

"Now, now, mother—you'll upset the baby. Isn't that right, little Carina?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "So you admit that you're hoping for a girl?"

A wink and an outstretched arm was the only answer she received on that subject. "We'd best be going, love. The appointment with that dreadful Muggle doctor starts in half an hour, and it always takes so much longer to arrive anywhere by car."

The sound of newspaper rustling followed them from the room as Narcissa trailed behind. "That's another thing. Why won't you allow me to recommend you to a magical healer for your pregnancies? I find it quite unusual that the Malfoy heirs are being seen to by those vulgar Muggle doctors. A hundred years of time-honored tradition—"

"Mother." Draco's voice was a warning. "Hermione has perfectly researched the subject, and it is non-negotiable. A magical pregnancy is no different than a Muggle one, and their doctors are just as capable of overseeing it."

As they crossed over the carpeted living room towards the front door, Narcissa was finally distracted by two small boys attaching themselves to her feet like a pair of rambunctious slippers. She scolded them lightheartedly as Draco and Hermione slipped out the door.

Thirty minutes later, the couple found themselves leaving a double trail of shoe-prints in the thin layer of snow on the sidewalk next to the maternity clinic on their way to their first prenatal appointment. Draco's grin was wide with anticipation as he opened the door and ushered his wife inside.

Hermione's heart fluttered lie a hummingbird as she found a seat in the crowded waiting room. Even after two children, the first time she got to look at her baby on an ultrasound never got old. Two long months of waiting for this moment were about to seem so worthwhile.

 _Tap, tap, tap_  went Hermione's foot on the tiled floor until a bubbly young nurse called them back to the ultrasound room. As she settled onto the crinkly paper over the exam table, the nurse pushed her glasses up her nose and looked over papers on a wooden clipboard.

"So, your due date is September 25. Third baby?"

Hermione nodded.

Draco, high spirits that he was in, reached for Hermione's hand and gave it a squeeze as the nurse squirted warm lubricant onto Hermione's belly.

"What's it going to be like, sharing a birthday month with your daughter?" Draco asked.

Her heart grew warm. "I'm so excited. She—or  _he—_ will be a Virgo, like me. Maybe she'll share my love of reading."

Three pairs of eyes glued themselves to the monitoring screen of the ultrasound machine as the nurse began rolling the plastic wand around on the flat skin under Hermione's belly button.

Any minute now, the image of her grape-sized baby would pop up on that screen. Image after image of black shapes surrounded by fuzzy gray captivated the group. The nurse frowned and changed the angle of the wand again and again, capturing different views of the black blob. Several minutes passed.

This was taking too long.

With each empty image, Hermione's heart dropped deeper, until it seemed to reside at the soles of her feet.

Finally, the nurse swallowed and spoke. "Here's your uterus. You can see that there's an empty pocket of fluids right there where your baby should be. That's the gestational sac. It's measuring nine weeks along."

Tears stung the corners of Hermione's eyes and she blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to hold them back. "That's just not possible. I've had a perfectly healthy pregnancy. I've been sick. We were going to paint the nursery next week."

The nurse set the ultrasound wand down on a steel table. "I'm so sorry. This happens sometimes, when the baby passes very early on in the pregnancy but your body doesn't get the memo. I'm afraid there is no baby; not anymore."

The nurse was still talking and Draco was nodding stoically along, but Hermione stopped listening as death spread through her heart. The nurse fetched Hermione's doctor, who discussed medical options with them as she sat numbly on the table.

There was no baby. There hadn't been any baby, not for weeks or months. She had been a walking tomb, carrying around her dead seedling inside her body as she lovingly stroked her empty womb and dreamt of names and nursery colors.

Draco was pulling on her arm, leading her out to the waiting room when she snapped back to the surface to hear the doctor address her. "Make a follow-up appointment for next week, and we'll see if there's any change."

Obediently, she lined up behind three women in various stages of pregnancy to request an appointment to confirm the death of her baby. Tears fell unbidden as she stared at the swollen bellies surrounding her. She began to gasp and hiccup before Draco placed his hand on her back and led her to the door. "This was a terrible idea. We'll call for an appointment," he murmured in her ear as he led her through the dismal March snow to his black Jaguar.

The pure, white powder had turned to an ugly grey sludge under the tire tracks.

She had almost given up all pretense of keeping herself together as he swerved out of the parking lot and drove them home. The radio, still on her favorite station from the ride out, began to play a familiar song that tore a wail from her lungs.

_When your dreams all fail_

_And the ones we hail_

_Are the worst of all_

_And the blood's run stale_

It felt too appropriate, too painful to contemplate—a dagger to her already bleeding heart.

After Draco pulled into the carport and killed the engine, they sat there silently for a moment. Narcissa, with all her judgment, was sitting on the other side of that heavy wooden door.

"I'll deal with my mother. You can go lie down."

Hermione pulled her winter scarf around her face to hide the trails of her tears and pushed through the garage door, past Narcissa's raised eyebrows and straight to the bedroom, warding the door behind her.

She fumbled with the expensive magic-compatible radio system she had bought from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes ages ago. The music didn't start quickly enough to drown out her mother-in-law's outraged murmurs warring with Draco's pleading tones, but once it did, she blasted the volume and cocooned herself in her down comforter as she listened to the song the fates had placed in her path on the way home from the worst doctor's appointment of her life.

She played it on repeat, over and over, until she had the lyrics memorized and began cry-screaming them through her strangled sobs.

* * *

A week passed. Hermione spent much of it furiously googling "missed miscarriage," and from what she could tell, there wasn't a lot of hope for her situation. She felt numb and cold as she stared up at the now-hated ultrasound screen for a second time to reveal what she already knew would be there: nothing.

Nothing but a gestational sac full of fluid, which, unfortunately, had to come out of her somehow.

The doctor gently led the couple to a private room to discuss their options. "You could just wait and see if your body expels the failed pregnancy on its own. But it's already been a couple of months, and it could still take up to two more months for it to happen naturally."

Two whole months of horrified anticipation? Hermione shook her head. "Please, I need it to be done. I need to let her go."

"Your other options are surgery or chemical induction."

"Please, give me the pills. I'd rather not have surgery if I don't have to." Besides, if it came to that, she would rather look into magical options than have a scalpel poking around her uterus. Narcissa would never have to know that sometimes magical healers knew things muggles didn't.

When they finally arrived back at home, prescription tucked safely into Hermione's beaded bag, Narcissa was waiting to pounce on them. "Have you figured out what to do about your premature pregnancy announcement?"

"I've decided to go with the truth. The papers will speculate no matter what, so I might as well control the narrative."

"Well, I never." A pristine manicured hand flew to rest over Narcissa's silk-spun robes. "A respectable witch would never allude to something so crass. It is strictly taboo."

Rage boiled beneath Hermione's skin. "Well, maybe it's about time that changed. Women are suffering in silence, hiding their grief from the world and mourning in dark corners because people like you have some outrageous idea that miscarriage is shameful."

"My dear, I really didn't—"

"I have nothing to be ashamed of!" Hermione's foot came down hard on the glossy wood floor. "And I will not be silenced to satisfy your outdated, harmful traditions. I will mourn  _my loss_  however I see fit!"

Narcissa's face was not so much proper as it was pink; she narrowed her eyes. "I told you not to make an announcement—your defiance has tempted the fates. If you had listened to me, this never would have happened."

A moment ago, Hermione didn't think it was possible to become any angrier than she already was. She was surprised to discover that even she wasn't right one-hundred percent of the time. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare put this on me. My miscarriage was not my fault. Breaking your ridiculous traditions had nothing to do with it."

Draco snapped out of his stunned silence and stepped in front of Hermione. "Mother, I think it's time you left."

Hermione didn't wait to see the back of her. She stomped through the living room, through the back door and into the garden. The frigid air seemed to have a cooling effect on her burning temper, and the snow was soft under her knees in front of the spot she and Draco had marked out to become a memorial for their never-to-be-born child.

She ran a finger over the moonstones they had arranged in a circle next to the rose garden. When the snow melted—the unseasonably late spring snow that seemed to be hanging around like the sorrow in her heart—they would plant a cherry tree in that circle.

Tears wet her cheeks as she considered the child that might have been. Was it another boy, with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair? Or a sweet girl; the daughter they had always dreamed of? She would never know. She would always wonder.

A peal of laughter ringing out over the shrubbery was her only warning before two pairs of brightly shining eyes rounded the corner. She swiftly dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief that had been living in her pocket ever since her life had been flipped upside down. The boys didn't need to be subjected to the darkness she was holding inside. She schooled her face, hiding away her grief as she threw her arms around her sons.

"Hermione," Draco's voice was soft and warm behind her. "Luna's in the drawing room. I'll keep the boys busy out here so you won't be interrupted."

Her fingers trembled as she stood and spun away from what had become her favorite spot in the world and headed towards the house. Luna had always been a reliable reporter and a loyal friend.

Hermione knew she could count on her to tell her story, and to tell it with dignity. And maybe, just maybe, the fact that she was opening up about her experiences in a culture that still considered it a taboo subject would embolden witches across Britain to feel a little less ashamed of their own losses and a little bit more empowered. That way, at least some good could come of her personal tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated to my own September baby, may he or she rest in peace, and to all women who have ever felt marginalized by the lonely grief that surrounds the unfairly taboo topic of miscarriage. May we all be less ashamed and more empowered, and free to tell our stories.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione trudged through the doors of the Superdrug with a prescription in her pocket and sad determination in her heart. She had a list, and she was going to fill it if it killed her.

According to one of those internet pregnancy websites, she should buy pain meds, but she figured a simple numbing spell would be more effective. Instead, she planned to buy lots of chocolate, the necessary sanitary supplies, and a new notebook.

The notebook, she hoped, would be her saving grace. Ever since Luna had written that article about her miscarriage and the importance of giving a voice to bereaved mothers with invisible losses, she had been feeling listless.

For months she had prepared for a new addition to their family. When the little pink line appeared on her stubbornly muggle pregnancy test, she and Draco were overjoyed. Her mind was consumed with planning and imagining what life would be like as a family of five. Now, as she stared at the remainder of those dreams shattered on the floor, she wasn't sure what to do with her brain.

She had been overwhelmingly relieved when Draco had suggested a family vacation.

"We could go in May," he said, "which should give your body enough time to recover from the physical aspects, and your mind plenty of time to plan everything."

Hermione nodded at his reasoning. "But where will we go? It has to be someplace happy, but also someplace with history. Someplace I can research to distract myself, to feel in control again."

"Love, I will take you to the happiest place on earth if that's what you desire."

And that was how Draco Malfoy unwittingly signed himself up for a trip to Disneyland, where he would be surrounded by hordes of Muggles and put himself at the mercy of their technology.

Hermione blinked at the woman behind the pharmaceutical counter. While she was distracted thinking about Space Mountain, her feet had robotically carried her to check off her last to-do. She swallowed her hesitation and handed the slip to the pharmacist, who studied it with wary eyes.

"I'm so sorry, but I am required to ask: are you pregnant?"

Hermione recoiled; the inquiry was like a slap to the face. "I'm having a miscarriage. It's for that. To help…"

The pharmacist's eyes softened. "I'm sorry. I hate that question—I don't want to bring up painful things. Obviously, this medication can cause miscarriage, so women who are pregnant shouldn't take it."

Her fingers clattered over her keyboard before she looked back up. "I've been there. It's awful."

The tears were just on the verge of spilling. Hermione hated crying in public, even if she did have a good reason. Just a few more minutes, and then she could bury herself in her king-sized bed with a Starbar and a box of tissues.

She morbidly imagined telling the cashier off should they dare to comment on her purchase selections before opting for the self-checkout counter and hurrying back to the safety of her home.

After a week of mainly hiding in her bed under a heating pad and filling her notebook with interesting facts about Disneyland history and a down-to-the-minute touring schedule for their upcoming trip, Hermione dragged herself to the shower to prepare for yet another doctor's appointment.

She was really beginning to hate clinics, and ultrasounds in general. But hopefully, with this visit she would be given the all clear and a clean bill of health. Then, maybe they would be able to start trying for their rainbow baby—the baby that, according to all the online pregnancy forums, colored the sky against the storm of sorrow following a loss.

Being an only child, Hermione had always dreamed of having a few children close together in age. She had always felt a bit lonely, as had Draco, growing up without sibling playmates. Scorpius and Leo were almost exactly two years apart, and while she hadn't been quite ready for baby number three when Leo was one, she was anxious to add a new one to the family now. But, she couldn't do that until her body was properly healed from the failed pregnancy.

A knock sounded at the door and Hermione walked over to answer it, only to be was overtaken by her enthusiastic children.

"Can I get the door, Mummy?" Scorpius bounced on his heels, his puppy eyes shining up at her.

"Of course, sweetheart."

"It's Grandma Granger!"

Hermione's mother was enveloped in two tiny pairs of arms as she tried to shuffle through the door.

"Thanks for doing this, Mum. We shouldn't be too long."

Dr. Granger reached out to wrap her daughter in a tight hug. "Take as long as you need."

Before she knew it, Hermione was sitting on the ultrasound table again with Draco standing next to her, his hand over hers.

"So, what we really want to see here is a nice, empty uterus," the ultrasound technician said. She pointed to a dull gray spot on the screen. "Unfortunately, the miscarriage is still incomplete. Your body just doesn't want to let go."

Hermione ran her hand over her belly; empty, but not empty enough. She would hold on to that little one if she could, if it would make any difference. Was that why her body wouldn't let go? Because her soul still hadn't?

As they waited for the doctor in one of the exam rooms, Hermione put her fingers into the bird's nest that her weeks of mourning had created out of her hair. "I just need it to be done. I need to be able to move on. Why isn't it done?"

Draco wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I know, love—I'm so sorry. Do you want me to take you to a magical healer? Maybe they have a better solution."

Hermione's curls flopped limply around her shoulders as she shook her head. "That'll just add more waiting; we'd have to find a specialist, set up an appointment, which could be weeks away if they're booked. Let's just finish this the Muggle way."

The Muggle way, as it turned out, involved another round of the same pills and a lot of finger crossing. If this didn't work, surgery was the last resort. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that after everything she had done to try to avoid it.

The day after her appointment, Draco came home from his day managing the Malfoy family investments with a twinkle in his eye. "Come out to the back garden. I have a surprise for you."

Next to the little circle of moonstones in the yard, Draco had placed a beautiful young sapling on top of the soil, its roots wrapped in sturdy burlap. "A cherry tree," he said, "for our sweet, tiny child."

The bark was shiny and smooth under her fingers. "It's perfect. Shall we plant it tonight?"

They waited until the boy's eyes were heavy with sleep before heading back to the garden by the light of the stars and their wands. The scent of freshly unearthed soil hung in the air, like newly-dug graves and newly-planted seeds. After they placed the final shovelful of dirt over the new tree's roots, they stood back and pondered its branches.

Draco smiled, a small and sad expression borne of grief and memories. "When I was a boy, my mother would a plant tree in the west garden every few years. She didn't like to talk about these things, but with each tree she planted she would tell me of the legends-of memorial trees and strange powers. It was said that they could serve as a connection between loved ones who had passed on and those still living."

Hermione wasn't sure about all of that. She'd never been one to put much stock into anything that seemed too much like wishful thinking and not enough like hard, proven magic.

And yet, she couldn't think of a better place to say the words that weighed heavy on her heart. "I don't know where you are now, baby. Sometimes I wonder if your soul is out there, wandering the universe, sad and alone. Did you go back to heaven, where Great-Grandma Granger rocks you to sleep? Is someone there to soothe your cries?" She sank to her knees and ran her fingers over the moonstones. "What happens to babies when death steals them from their mothers? I wish I knew. I wish I knew that somebody is keeping you warm, wherever you are."

Draco knelt next to her and pulled her head to his chest, allowing her tears to soak into his robes.

Later on the couch, Hermione snuggled into his side with a box of tissues and a chocolate bar. "Get ready to cry," she said. "Dumbo is just about the worst possible movie to watch right now. But I felt it was appropriate—and you should try to get a little familiar with more Disney movies, for our vacation next month."

She was already crying from the planting ceremony when the movie began, but her tears grew into a full-on sob as she watched the stork deliver bundled baby animals to all the other expecting mothers, while Mrs. Jumbo stared wistfully at the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you to your kind response to my first chapter of this fic. I appreciate all of your kind words, and want to assure you that I am writing this piece reflectively. It represents many things that I experienced, but those experiences were many years ago and I have had a long time to heal from them. Also, this work is a fictionalized version of the events, so not everything in this story happened exactly.
> 
> Also: this piece has been nominated for the Judges Pick award in the Quidditch Leauge short story competition that I wrote it for. If you love this story and would like to vote for it, you can do so here: topic/218720/177054764/1/Season-7-Judges-Pick-Round-3


	3. Chapter 3

“Scorpius! Get your foot out of that gate immediately. You are going to lose your shoe!”

Hermione wiggled her oldest son’s foot back through the bars of the safety rail that stood between the Princess meet-and-greet queue and the decorative pond below it. If their entire afternoon was derailed by having to buy Scorpius new shoes, they would never make it to all the rides she had planned to get to today.

She huffed out a stressed sigh as she turned back to Draco, who was regarding her with one eyebrow raised.

“So, what’s next on your itinerary? Lunch with a bridge troll?”

“No, silly. Next is _The Pirates of the Caribbean._ Didn’t you read the schedule?” She tapped the spot next to 12:45 pm on her printed list.

“What are we, back in Hogwarts? Can’t we just roam around and do as we please?”

“Well, we could, if we wanted to spend all day in lines. This schedule, according to the internet website, will optimize our time by minimizing wait times.”

“Right, but—oh no, Scorpius! Didn’t your mother just tell you to—”

_Splunk._

Draco’s warning was a moment too late. Four sets of eyes stared down at a Spiderman sneaker half-floating in the surface of the Disneyland “river”.

Scorpius turned to his mother, open horror shining out of his pale grey eyes. “Will I still get to meet Snow White?”

Despite her frustration, Hermione’s heart melted at the sight of his tiny lower lip jutting out into the warm spring air. “We will still meet Snow White. It just is going to take a little longer.”

Scorpius sniffled and wiped at the moisture on his face with his arm. The little girl who stood in front of them in line craned her neck around to see what all the commotion was about.

Her eyes widened at the sight of Scorpius’ sneaker in the water. “Toodles! Oh, Toodles! We need a Mouse-ka-tool!”

Hermine’s hand flew up to cover the grin playing at her lips. She doubted the children would appreciate the humor she found in the distressed child’s plea to a cartoon character.

Maybe if she waited until everyone was looking the other way, then retrieved the shoe with wandless magic—she glanced around at the dozens of patrons sneaking side glances at their misfortune—no, too many witnesses.

After several minutes of staring at the unnatural disturbance of the water’s surface, Hermione lifted her eyes to see a man in an immaculate white uniform ambling by on the sidewalk with a broom and dustpan.

Draco waved to get the man’s attention. “Excuse me! Could we get some assistance?”

The Disneyland employee ( _Cast Member,_ as they called them here) peered down at the water before snapping his eyes back up into Scorpius’ tear-streaked face.

“Don’t worry, little guy. I’m going to run to get a tool, and then we’ll see if we can’t fish that out for you.”

Scorpius pushed his face against the bars of the safety fence and watched as his shoe drifted around the small body of water, floating towards a low-set bridge. Leo toddled up next to him to watch the scene unfold with childish wonder.

Hermione cringed over their heads and turned towards Draco. “We’ll never get it back if it goes under there!” she whispered.

“I’m sure one of the countless gift shops has shoes for sale. Don’t panic; we’ll figure something out.”

Hermione waved the family behind them ahead, allowing them to move past them in line, as they all stood staring at the water.

This… was not on her vacation schedule. She bit her lip nervously and ran her eyes over her down-to-the minute touring plan. She supposed she could cut “It’s a Small World” from the itinerary. Draco would probably be annoyed by that ride, anyway, and she supposed she owed him extra consideration after how thoughtful he had been these last couple of months.

After her body had finally cooperated under the strong-arm of Muggle medication, she had been advised by her obstetrician to wait at least a month before trying to conceive again. By her calculations, that would put her next opportunity exactly… now. They were both crossing their fingers that this month would be the one; that they would get to have a little “Dumbo baby” soon.

After several tense minutes and a moment of despair where the sneaker momentarily disappeared below the edge of the bridge before drifting back into the open water, the Cast Member returned, jogging, armed with a long pole with a hook at the end.

They were lucky. Two minutes later, Scorpius had his shoe back in his tiny hands.

The only trouble was, it was sopping wet.

“Oh, Scorpius. I’m just going to put this over by the stroller and let it dry, so you don’t get blisters. You’ll have to meet the princesses with only the one shoe.” Hermione lifted the shoe from his arm and wiggled back through the line out to where they had stashed the stroller—or, in other words, rolling diaper bag.

Footwear incident aside, it had been a beautiful vacation so far. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the look on Draco’s face when he exited his first-ever roller coaster. He’d played it off, however, and quickly returned to his “resting stoic” expression. “Well, It’s really not that different than riding a broom,” he’d said. But he’d still insisted on riding _Space Mountain_ a second and third time.

She wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to return to reality, but with only one day left, she knew it was coming soon.

After nearly an hour of waiting, the young family finally stepped through the velvet curtains to meet the princesses. Cinderella’s face lit up as she ushered the boys in for a hug.

“I noticed you are missing your shoe! The same thing happened to me once,” she said, before turning to pose for the photographer.

Scorpius’ face lit up, and Hermione smiled; his exuberance made all the hours of endless planning worth every minute.

Hermione had been feeling so guilty lately. She knew she hadn’t been as present emotionally with her children; the stress of her miscarriage had taken a lot out of her, and though she had been doing her best to allow herself to mourn and heal, she knew her pain showed through the cracks.

This week they had spent in the most magical place on earth—other than Hogwarts, of course—had been exactly what everyone needed.

That night, as the blue sky melted into yellows and pinks, as white-clad workers swept scattered popcorn kernels into portable dustbins and waved glowing light sticks to direct the foot-parade of departing patrons, tired feet trudged back through the park to the on-site hotel.

Once the boys were asleep in the second bedroom of their luxurious _Grand Californian_ family suite, Hermione tiptoed out to collapse in bed next to Draco. “I’m absolutely exhausted. Have any more of those pain potions?”

Draco reached into the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out two crystal vials. “Bottoms up.” He clinked his to hers before tilting his head back and downing the cerulean potion.

She sighed as the cool tingling sensation washed through her body all the way down to her toes, leaving it refreshed and healed from the abuse she had subjected it to all day.

“I know you’re tired, but this is our last night to try for a baby conceived in a magical land.” Draco rolled over to his side and placed his chin in his hand as he looked down into Hermione’s face.

The corners of her mouth pulled upwards. “We’ll be here tomorrow night, too—our flight home isn’t until Sunday morning.” She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his hand. “Besides, the United Kingdom is a magical land. Plenty of wizards there.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not interested, or just being your usual swotty self?”

“Definitely the latter.”

“Good. Because I’ve spent all day ogling you in line after line, and all day I just kept thinking about how much I’d rather be back here with you.”

Hermione snorted. “Well, now that the boys are asleep, you have me all to yourself.”

He pulled his wand out of the nightstand, where he had concealed it earlier this week under heavy notice-me-not charms, and dimmed the lights with a flick of his wrist.

The morning brought with it a sense of bittersweet melancholy. Hermione tried to commit every moment to memory as they moved through the final day of their vacation. The innocent giggles at being greeted by a man in a mouse costume; the carefree grins as they watched parades roll by under a cotton candy haze. Yet, by the end of it, despite all the joy and the wonder, she felt ready to go home and face reality.

She was ready to move past the stage of mourning she had been trudging through and move on to whatever great adventure her life planned to throw at her next.   

The last day passed in a whirl, and before she had even blinked they were finding a spot in front of Sleeping Beauty’s castle to view the fireworks.

“If these are supposed to be so spectacular, why didn’t we see them before?” Draco asked as they settled in next to a life-sized statue of Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse.

“It’s the off-season, believe it or not. This place will be even more crowded next month, and they they’ll have fireworks every night. Right now, they only set them off on the weekends.”

The swell of music filled the air around them, sending a hush through the waiting crowd. Hermione blinked back tears as _When You Wish Upon a Star_ played through the bursts of colorful light.

She had listened to that song, when she’d been in mourning. Mostly she had felt incredibly embittered by its message. No amount of wishing upon stars was going to bring her baby back. And what was this business of, “if you just wish hard enough, if you just love enough, anything could happen?”

Draco’s arm snaked around her back and pulled her close. His warmth sent a wave of soothing energy through her. This time, as she listened to the song, she felt oddly at peace with it. She could make a new dream. She was ready to lay the old one to rest.

Her breath caught in her throat as a figure of Dumbo flew across the sky, lit by a spotlight and cheered on by the voice of Timothy Mouse: “That’s it, Dumbo! You can fly!”

She was hit by a powerful feeling of certainty as she watched the elephant soar through the residual smoke of the fireworks. Her baby was ok, wherever he or she was. Her baby was ok, and flying free. She could let go. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she leaned into Draco’s shoulder. She felt she had finally achieved what she had come on this vacation for in the first place—peaceful resolution.


	4. Chapter 4

At five o’clock in the morning, exactly seven days after their family vacation to Disneyland, Hermione sat at her kitchen table with a cup of peppermint tea.

A fat stack of work brought home, a proposal on werewolf rights, sat next to her teacup. She tapped her wand at the second line of the third paragraph to rearrange it—again—just as Draco stumbled into the kitchen, blond stubble scattered across his jawline.

“You didn’t come to bed last night. Everything alright?”

Hermione grimaced. “Oh, just loads of catch-up work to do. All the time I took off for medical leave after… the baby, and our trip…”

“Are you sure you’re not just anxious about something else?”

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “I really do have work—”

“If you test now, it’s going to come up negative, and you’ll only be disappointed.”

He wasn’t wrong. Hermione’s browser history was bursting with website after website on methods of pregnancy testing. As far as she could tell, Muggles had the upper-hand on early detection. Under her bathroom sink, next to a full case of her favorite anti-nausea potion, sat a 50-pack of what internet bloggers had argued were the most sensitive pee-sticks available. 

But it was still too soon.

The earliest—the very, very earliest—she could hope to see the faintest possible line would be at nine days past ovulation. She was eight days past at the most. It was just so very hard to wait.

She glanced out the window at the baby cherry tree growing in the back garden. The morning light kissed its leaves, illuminating them in soft golden light.

“You should at least wait until next week. Your odds will be better then.”

“Well, what’s the point of buying 50 pregnancy tests if I’m going to wait until it’s a sure thing? I might as well test early so I don’t get my hopes up.”

Draco shrugged. “Do as you like.” He turned and trodded back to the master bedroom, sticking the morning paper under his arm and grabbing a croissant off the kitchen counter.

Hermione fisted her curls and stared at her desk calendar. Eight days past ovulation was too early, and there was also the possibility that she was only seven, or even six days past. She wished she had used a more accurate means of tracking her cycle this month.

But she might as well practice using the test, for when it was time, right? Then she would have a good baseline for what a negative test looked like.

She downed the last of her tea in one swallow, tiptoed to the guest bathroom, and stared at the sink. Rats. The pregnancy tests were the master bathroom, which meant facing Draco’s knowing smirk as she succumbed to temptation.

She grimaced and marched into the room. “Just need to use the loo,” she said, as she shut the bathroom door behind her. 

“I knew you couldn’t help yourself!” he called from the other room.

Internet wisdom said that morning pee was prime pregnancy test material. Supposedly, the hormones were more highly concentrated first thing in the morning since most people would have been sleeping during the night. 

Because most people had a better handle on their lives than Hermione.

She fumbled with the tiny dipstick and followed the package instructions exactly, then set it on the countertop and cast a Tempus spell.

According to the box, she had to wait three minutes. She stared at the place where the line would show up as the countdown ran down, willing something to appear.

Nothing did. But that was to be expected. Hermione nodded to herself and left it on the counter. Maybe tomorrow would be different.

All day long as she sat in her office on the third floor of the Ministry, her mind wandered off to the package of pregnancy tests under her bathroom sink. She was just trying to talk herself out of indulging in another “practice” test as soon as she got home when an impertinent knock sounded at her door.

She squinted across the room. “Come in.”

The words had barely left her lips when the door swung open to reveal a woman she hadn’t seen in weeks. Hermione’s stomach dropped. Was it too late to revoke her invitation?

“Hermione.” Narcissa Malfoy pursed her lips. She was holding a familiar issue of the Quibbler; the one that contained a certain exclusive interview with Luna Lovegood. 

Hermione straightened. “If you’re coming in here to lecture me, you can walk right back out. You may be Draco’s mother, but—”

“Hermione—”

“—I will not simply sit here and allow you to berate me over my choices.”

Narcissa slapped the magazine on top of the neatly stacked piles of papers on Hermione’s desk. 

“This isn’t about you. This is about tradition! You knew my feelings about brandishing our family’s personal business in public, and yet you couldn’t help it, could you?”

“Those traditions are outdated. I’ve done the wizarding world a service—”

“Yes, a service. Because it’s always about altruism, isn’t it? You can never pass up an opportunity to put yourself in the spotlight. Here comes Miss Granger again, saving the world one heroic demonstration at a time.”

“I believe it’s Mrs. Malfoy now.”

“And that, my dear, is precisely the point.”

Hermione sighed. There had been many points of contention with the way she was expected to behave as a member of the Malfoy family. When Narcissa had implied that Hermione should stay home and care for the young Malfoy heirs, Hermione had bristled. When Lucius had raised his eyebrows at the way her sugar spoon clinked against the side of the fairy-made china teacups, Hermione had stirred harder.

But of course, she’d made compromises as well.

After all, she’d…

Well, there was that one time when…

Anyway, she was sure she had made several.

Narcissa sighed deeply as she placed herself on the edge of the forest green guest chair in front of Hermione’s desk.

“My dear, believe it or not, I do have something of an idea of what you are going through. Draco is an only child for a reason.”

Hot anger flashed through Hermione’s heart. “Then you should know how hurtful it was for you to say the things you said. The things you still are saying!”

Narcissa pursed her lips. “Did you know that my mother advised me, as a young wife? It’s not terribly uncommon in the pureblood community, to have pregnancy difficulties. That’s where the tradition comes from. No self-respecting pure-blood witch would want to admit that their biggest asset—their ability to produce heirs—was compromised.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. In a twisted, misogynistic way she supposed it made sense—you didn’t see a lot of pure-blood families with many children. Maybe she should begin a research campaign on genetic abnormalities and inbreeding within the pure-blooded community. 

Narcissa continued, “So to admit to a miscarriage was to admit to fault. My Grandmothers lived in fear of disgrace or abandonment by their husbands if they came to be viewed as ‘cursed.’  
When you, as my daughter-in-law, speak of these things, it opens the entire family up to public scrutiny.”

Narcissa reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a folded copy of The Daily Prophet. The pages rustled as she flipped to the gossip column and turned it for Hermione to see.

Narcissa Malfoy: Snob or Squib?

Rumors have been surfacing regarding the Malfoy’s magical potency following a shocking article in this month’s Quibbler, in which Hermione Malfoy admitted to the end of a magical pregnancy under very strange circumstances. Is this the manifisteateion of long-speculated magical invirilty in the Malfoy line? Should we expect to see tiny squib grandchildren running about the lawns of Malfoy Manor in the coming years? This reporter will keep you informed.

The article went on to discuss the alignment of the stars and the dregs of the author’s very own morning tea as proof of future castophres for the Malfoy family. 

Hermione snorted. “That’s ridiculous. The title doesn’t even make any sense! Everyone knows that Lavender Brown’s column is a joke.”

“Joke or not, it’s made me a laughingstock.”

“I’m sorry for high society’s backwards thinking, Narcissa, but I won’t apologize for what I did. I would hope that my daughter—should I ever have one—will be able to live in a world where she won’t have to fear being outcast for a perfectly normal, perfectly devastating personal tragedy.”

Narcissa gave a small smile. 

“Did you know that one in five pregnancies end in miscarriage?” Hermione asked. “One in five of your high society friends have grieved in secret, afraid to admit it out loud. I’ll bet some of them, at least, would be glad to have a little more open discussion on the matter.”

“Or perhaps just bitter,” said Narcissa, “that it couldn’t have been during their time.”

Narcissa rose, elegant as a ballroom dancer, and stepped silently towards the door. She paused with one hand poised on the handle, turned and said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” before disappearing behind it.

 

Hermione declined to test again that night. It wouldn’t make any difference; it was sure to be negative. In fact, perhaps she would wait an entire week before testing again. 

After all, she hadn’t been exactly tracking her ovulation. She couldn’t pinpoint, with any accuracy, exactly when her little egg had burst free and began the journey down to her uterus, where it could become a pregnancy. All she had was an educated guess—a guess that could be up to seven days off. 

So, instead of testing, Hermione spent her evening climbing down the rabbit hole of “Trying to Conceive” online forums.

At 11:00 pm, there was a soft rap at the office door. “Hermione, love? Are you ready to wind down? I’ve brought you a cup of chamomile tea. It’s supposed to—”

Hermione grimaced. There were no reliable studies on the effects of chamomile tea on a developing fetus. What if she drank some, and then she miscarried again? 

Draco paused in the doorway, china teacup and saucer poised in front of his chest, and a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

She pushed her chair back from the computer desk. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Of course you have.”

“—and according to multiple studies, the best way to track ovulation is through the use of temping.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Essentially, you take your temperature every morning, and enter it into a chart. After you ovulate, your basal body temperature will spike. Once it remains elevated for three days, you’ll know for sure which day ovulation occured.”

Draco’s eyebrows jumped. “And this will help because…?”

“Because I won’t have to sit around obsessing over exactly how many days past ovulation I am and I can know exactly when I can begin testing for pregnancy.”

“Right. Hermione, I think that’s enough internet for the day.”

She sighed. The look on his face was practiced patience; the look he got when she was becoming neurotic to the point of hysteria. She knew she was becoming unhinged. In fact, she was painfully aware of it. 

For days she’d been obsessing over the temperature of her bath water (too hot and it could hurt the baby!), whether or not it was advisable to eat lunch meat (listeria, no thank you!) and if she could safely exercise (studies say yes, but old wives tales do sometimes have merit). And she didn’t even know whether or not she was pregnant yet.

“I just think that if I had all the information...”

“Do what you need to do, love. I just wish you would relax a little bit. I hate seeing you so stressed out.”

A stab of guilt. Stress was also bad for the baby. But stressing about how stressed she was certainly wasn’t helpful. 

“What’s stressing me out is not being in control. Next month, if I’m not pregnant, I’m going to give temping a try.”

That night, the bed was lumpy. That night, Hermione’s arms kept poking under her ribs in just the wrong spot. Draco’s annoyance levels must have been somewhere near the vaulted ceiling at the number of times she tossed and turned in their bed. 

Through her haze of exhaustion the next morning, she stared out through the sliding-glass door into the back garden. It was streaked with sunlight and dotted with wildflowers blooming among the grasses. She settled into her favorite kitchen chair with her planner and a cup of peppermint tea (the safest variety for pregnancy, as far as she could tell). 

She was probably nine days past ovulation now. Some people got a little pink line at nine days past, if they were working with an accurate ovulation date and a sensitive pregnancy test. Still, if she tested now, she’d likely be setting herself up for disappointment. As she waited for her tea to cool, she glanced out the window at her little cherry tree.

As the breeze rustled its leaves, she felt a stirring. She wondered if what Draco told her the night they had planted their little cherry tree had any merit—if a memorial could really serve as a connection through the veil of death. Hermione wasn’t sure if she had believed the legends then, but the glow in her heart now softened her to the possibility.

A bird, a red-breasted robin, fluttered down and landed on one of the thicker twigs of the tree. It stared right at her, chirped a series of notes, and took off into the cloudless sky. She wasn’t sure if it was her neurosis, or truly magic from beyond the grave, but she was suddenly sure that if she took a pregnancy test now, she wouldn't be disappointed.

Tea forgotten, she rushed to the bathroom. She stared, unblinking, at the test as her Tempus charm counted down the minutes. Five, then three, then—oh! If she squinted just so—   
She canceled the Tempus and shone a bright light from the end of her wand. It was barely visible, but in the pregnancy testing world, a line is a line.

“Draco! Come and see!”

Draco grunted and rolled over in bed.

Triumphant smile across her face, Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and shook his shoulder. “Look! I’m pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovlies! I know it's been a long time since I've updated--it's actually be a long time since I've posted anything at all, since I have been very busy over the last few months moving myself and my family 1,000 miles away. But I've finally got a computer up and running again, so hopefully I'll be able to get to writing with some regularity again. Thanks for being so patient! Hope you enjoy this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's implied by the content of the story leading up to this chapter, but in case you are feeling safe, I'll say it again: TRIGGER WARNING.

 

Warm summer rain tapped against the window of Hermione’s bedroom. She squinted at the clock on her bedside table.

 

5:30 am. Perfect. She stumbled to her stash of tests under the bathroom sink and pulled one out.

 

Two used pregnancy tests sat, lined up so the pink lines touched, on her countertop next to a purple sharpie. After she’d pulled her first little pink line yesterday morning, she’d tested again in the evening.

 

According to the internet, the line should get darker. The bigger the baby got, the more pregnancy hormones it would produce. More pregnancy hormones meant a darker line.

 

Her online pregnancy forum was full of uploaded pictures of pregnancy tests. Everyone else had lines that darkened each day that passed.

 

As soon as hers were dark like theirs, she could finally feel safe. She could relax and begin dreaming of nursery colors and baby names.

 

Last night’s line was about the same as yesterday morning’s: barely visible. She hoped today would be better.

 

Five minutes later, Hermione stood over the bathroom sink, squinting at her tidy line of tests when Draco opened the bathroom door.

 

“What are you doing?” He rubbed at his eyes. “Come back to bed, love.”

 

She waved her hand to usher him closer. “It’s getting stronger. You can see this one without squinting if you put your face right up to it.”

 

“That’s lovely, but it’s not even light out. You’re exhausting yourself.”

 

Hermione pulled the cap off of the sharpie and carefully wrote on the test, in tiny letters, “August 2, AM. 10 DPO,” before she followed her husband back to bed.

 

* * *

 

“Hee hee! Scorpy, dat tickles!” Leo’s voice was full of mischievous mirth, exactly the kind that did not bode well.

 

Hermione rolled over in bed and smacked her lips. Not only was it way too early for the boys to be awake, but her breath tasted like paperclips.

 

She grumbled as she rolled to her feet, but then hesitated. It was early morning, and early morning was pregnancy test time.

 

She should go out to the living room and see what the boys were up to, but she needed to pee. It would be a shame to waste morning test material. What could the boys be doing that five minutes would make it worse? They were probably just playing with their Quidditch action wizards.

 

Hermione ignored the giggles from the kitchen and grabbed a test from her stash.

 

The line was darker today. It was visible without squinting, and the tiniest bit darker than last night’s line. Hermione’s heart soared with hope as she wandered out to check on her boys.

 

“Shhhhh Leo, Mommy’s coming!”

 

Well, that was never a good sign. Hermione stepped towards the hushed voices in the kitchen. On the living room carpet, she saw an even worse sign: a ringlet of curly blond hair.

 

Her heart raced as she followed clump after clump of hair, like breadcrumbs through the forest. They fell around the corner and into the kitchen where Scorpius stood with his hands behind his back, and Leo stood with…

 

“Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no!”

 

His curls. Her baby’s beautiful, cherubic curls were in piles around him on the hardwood floor.

 

“Scorpy cutted my hair. Do you love it, Mommy?”

 

Hermione pressed her palms over her eyes so hard her cheekbones were in danger of cracking. What was it that they said to do to avoid screaming at your children? Imagine you are floating on a cloud? Count down from ten?

 

She was past the point of self-soothing. “Scorpius, hand me the scissors.”

 

Scorpius pouted and looked at her through his long, pale eyelashes. “But Mommy, Leo told me to. He wanted to look pretty like Daddy.”

 

“The scissors. Now.”

 

The silver blades were still warm from where Scoripus’ hands had hidden them behind his back. Her throat burned with the scream she held back. She couldn't trust herself to open her mouth.

 

His curls. His perfect, angelic curls. It had taken his entire life for them to grow out into the perfect halo she’d adored so much, and now they were gone.

 

Gone like her baby. Gone like the Golden Snitch themed nursery and her dreams of dressing up her one-month-old as Hedwig for Halloween.

 

Would this baby, this tiny seed inside of her, be gone too?

 

Hermione wiped her tears from her cheeks as she turned and marched back to her bedroom to wake up Draco. Also to fetch a glass of water; the taste of metal in her mouth was enough to make her nauseous.

 

* * *

 

The Werewolf Rights Proposal sat neglected on Hermione’s desk at the ministry all day. Instead of researching, Hermione worried. It had been a bad idea to spend so much time looking at pictures of pregnancy test progressions online. Now she couldn’t stop comparing her pale, barely deepening lines to the strong, dark lines of every other pregnant woman on the internet.

 

In a healthy pregnancy,  hormones should double every day. Her lines were not twice as dark, but it wasn’t an exact science, was it?

 

She reached over the stack of Magical Law textbooks on her desk for her glass of drinking water. At least the unpleasant taste in her mouth was encouraging. According to the pregnancy textbook she’d shrunk and slipped into her suit coat pocket, metal mouth was a symptom of pregnancy. Pregnancy symptoms were good.

 

Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach.

 

At 12:00, as Hermione sat at her desk and picked at a bowl of fruit she’d purchased from the Ministry’s cafeteria, Draco and Leo walked through her door. In order to fix that morning’s disaster, Draco, who had a flexible schedule, had opted to give the nanny the day off.

 

“Look, Mommy! Am I pretty?” Leo walked with the kind of swagger only a first trip to a professional hair salon could produce.

 

“Absolutely handsome.” She smiled, but sadness stuck in her throat as she ran her fingers through the half-inch of hair left on his head.

 

 

* * *

 

That night, the line was exactly the same shade of pink that it had been that morning. Hermione felt her throat constrict as she wrote the date and the number of days past ovulation on it and set it on the countertop with the others.

 

She needed to go to sleep at a decent time tonight. For the last several nights, she had laid awake, blinking at the ceiling and trying not to worry too much about the tiny baby in her belly.

 

But how could she stop worrying when it was the only thing she could think about? If she could will that line to get darker, it would be a deep purple by now. If she could study herself pregnant, achieve fertility through tireless effort, it would have happened. But of all the things in life, this was one that she had zero control over.

 

Hermione couldn’t stand not being in control.

 

Finally, she sat up in her bed and pulled her magic-compatible laptop open to Youtube. If the internet couldn’t help her, who could?

 

“Videos to help you fall asleep,'' she typed into the search bar. She squinted at the thumbnail images that popped into her feed. Serene women smiled at her, holding pairs of scissors. ASMR? What was ASMR? And why did they all want to give her a virtual haircut?

 

“Haircut for a forest sprite, french accent.” Hermione snorted. It sounded like a course at Beauxbatons academy. With a shrug of her shoulders, she clicked the video. It was worth a try. If she hated it, she could always turn it off.

 

“Hello, I ‘ave come here today to give you a little haircut.” The woman in the video spoke softly, slowly, and Hermione sighed. Leaves dangled in front of the camera as if to imply that the viewer was the tree in need of a hairdresser. It was so odd, yet somehow relaxing, that Hermione couldn’t stop watching.

 

“Oh, I can see it has been a while since you ‘ave had this done. Next time, you come to me sooner.” Leaves fell in the foreground as the woman snipped her scissors in front of the screen.

 

She was slumped into her pillow, eyes closed and half-asleep when the sway of the mattress woke her. Draco took a look at her screen, then a look at her, then back to the Frenchwoman, who now poked at the screen with a sharp stick and murmured about woodlice.

 

“Um, Hermione, are you ok?” he asked.

 

“Huh? Oh. Um. Yes, just going to sleep now.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to see a magical healer? I’m sure my mother could recommend—”

 

All her drowsiness disappeared at his suggestion. “No. We are not telling Narcissa about this pregnancy. I’m under enough stress already, so she can know when my belly resembles Saturn and there’s no point in denying it.” Not after what Narcissa had said to her last week. Not when Hermione wasn’t even sure if this pregnancy was going to stick. The last thing she needed was more criticism.

 

A hint of something—guilt? Sadness?—crossed Draco’s face. With a sigh, he placed a kiss on Hermione’s forehead. “Goodnight, love. Enjoy your… whatever that is.”

 

Hermione fell asleep that night to the sound of shears clipping away at tree branches.

 

* * *

 

 

The line was not any darker the next morning. Tears of panic pricked at Hermione’s eyes as she stared at it. Not only was it not darker, it almost looked lighter. No, it was definitely the tiniest bit lighter than it had been last night.

 

Her heart flew into a panic as she recalled the dream she had awoken from. Her dreams had always been more vivid during her pregnancies, but they had never been so full of death. Last night she dreamed she’d given birth to a fossil. She prided herself on not falling for silly superstitions, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it was a bad omen.

 

“What’s the matter, love?” Draco’s unshaven face appeared in the mirror behind her, concern etched between his eyebrows.

 

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing. I’m trying not to think about it. It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“What doesn’t mean anything?”

 

She set the test down next to the others. “Does that line look lighter to you?”

 

“You want to know what I think?”

 

“Yes. I mean, no. Well… maybe?”

 

“I think you need a day off. Come on, I know a wizard in the international portkey office. Want to go back to Disneyland?”

 

“I can’t just take off of work! My werewolf rights proposal—”

 

“Hermione, you’re breaking down. You’re scaring me.”

 

She wiped at the moisture falling down her cheeks. “I know, and I don’t know how to stop. I can’t stop. I can’t think about anything else when this—” She jabbed her finger at the perfect row of used pregnancy tests. “—is happening right now.”

 

“What do you need me to do? Throw them all in the trash?”

 

“No! That’s my baby. You can’t throw away my baby!” She cradled her arms over her stomach.

 

Draco wrapped his arms around Hermione’s shuddering shoulders. “No, of course I won’t. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

 

A sob wrenched from her throat and she turned her face into the shoulder of his dressing gown and cried.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter was tough to write.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has shown so much support for this story. All of your love means so much to me, and I appreciate each and every favorite, follow, and review.
> 
> Also, if you'd like something a little more light-hearted to cheer you up after this, go check out my new story, "Draco Meowfoy, Aristocat."


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione stirred a spoonful of honey into a china teacup full of hot water. No tea. No coffee. Nothing was safe. 

 

Not when this morning’s line had been just the tiniest bit lighter than yesterday’s. 

 

It was irrational, but it was all she had. Refraining from drinking anything that wasn’t proven by science to be safe for her baby wouldn’t save it now. Not if it was already failing.

 

But she really couldn’t take any chances, could she?

 

And this was an easy sacrifice to make. The pounding of her heart when she remembered the empty look in the nurses’ eyes as she sat on the ultrasound chair woke her up plenty. Caffeine would only make it worse. 

 

She stirred faster until the spoon clunked against the cup loud enough to make Narcissa’s lips purse, had she been in Hermione’s kitchen that morning. As if Narcissa would ever be allowed in Hermione’s kitchen again, after the stunts she’d pulled.

 

Hermione set her spoon down with a little  _ clink.  _ She wasn’t looking forward to drinking honey water, but at least the ritual was soothing. Something to do. Something to keep her from thinking about--she flicked her eyes to the window, to the baby cherry tree encircled by moonstones in the back garden.

 

There was something there. Something that stopped her heart. 

 

She straightened right out of her seat, up to her feet, and strode to the window for a closer look.

 

A wasp. Not a bird this time, but a wasp. 

 

She’d never seen a wasp in the garden before. 

 

It circled the tree like a wolf stalking prey, its stinger glinting in the weak morning light. 

 

And she knew.

 

In that moment she knew it was over.

 

* * *

  
  


It was that same afternoon that she started to bleed. 

 

She sat there in the bathroom, staring at a bloody wad of tissue in her lap, and felt her heart go dead. Tears filled her eyes, but her arms were lead, unable to move to swipe them away.

 

The ultimate unfairness. This was not supposed to happen. How could this have happened?

 

Two percent. There was only a two percent chance of losing two pregnancies in a row. 

 

Maybe Narcissa had been right all along. Maybe there was some strange magic that latched itself onto witches who revealed their pregnancies before the appropriate amount of time had passed. Maybe now she was cursed to never bear a child again.

 

Had there ever been a study on that? The correlation between the announcement of a magical pregnancy and the likelihood of miscarriage thereafter?

 

Hermione doubted it. Wizards were terrible at the scientific method.

 

The bathroom door creaked as Draco pushed it open, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

 

Hermione sat frozen, lips pressed together, face soaked with tears and snot.

 

“Love? What’s the matter?”

 

She shook her head slowly. What would she say to that, even if she could find her voice? How do you tell your husband you’ve defied the odds and lost him yet another baby?

 

Draco stumbled closer, his face white as the marble countertops. “Is that… are you…?” He swore. “Let’s get you to the doctor.”

 

No explanation necessary. She should have felt grateful. No need to stumble through the words she couldn’t bear to speak. Instead, she felt nothing. Nothing but the gaping hole where her heart should have been.

 

“No. The doctor can’t do anything. I’m not far enough along for interventions.” At barely four weeks pregnant, the only thing a physician could give her was a couple of aspirin and a hot water bottle for the pain. 

 

This was her fault for being so obsessive. Her fault for being so stressed out. She slapped her hand to her forehead.  _ No, Hermione, you cannot think like that.  _ Miscarriages were not the woman’s fault. Miscarriages were not the woman’s fault. Miscarriages were not--

 

“Do you want me to help you up? Can I… get you anything?” Draco sounded unsure of himself for the first time in a long time. 

 

Hermione swallowed and shoved all of her pain into a soundproof box behind her ribcage. “No. It’ll be the same as a regular period at this gestation. I’ll just hop in the shower, then I’ll get ready for work--”

 

“You are not going to work today.”

 

“I’ll get ready for  _ work,  _ because I used all my sick leave after… well, after the first time and I--”

 

“Hermione, please, you are in no condition to--”

 

“No condition? And who gets to decide that? There’s no medical reason for me to stay home, and I’m behind on my proposal, so there’s every reason to go in.”

 

Draco raked a hand through his hair, mussing it even further from the number his pillowcase had done on it during the night. “Fine. Do what you need to do.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

 

* * *

  
  


She’d forgotten about the motivational seminar. These things were bad enough on a normal day, and today… She tapped her finger on her crossed arm and shot a glance to the podium in the Grand Atrium of the ministry. Behind it sat a row of chairs: Minister Shaklebot’s, several which sat empty, and then her. Sharon Susanson. Such a stupid name.

 

Of all the speakers the Ministry contracted, this week’s had to be Sharon. Sharon, with the sickening optimistic speeches. Sharon, with the backhanded judgement masquerading as helpfulness. It made Hermione want to shoot enchanted canaries at her head, even on a good day. And today was not a good day. 

 

Sharon bounced up to the podium and cast a sonorous charm at herself. Hermione counted twenty visible teeth as Sharon flashed her obnoxious grin in every direction. 

 

“Hello everyone! Is everyone having a magical day?” She paused, as if hoping the crowd would respond with jubilant greetings. 

 

A few coughs scratched through the silence, and Bob from accounting called out, “Hey there, Sharon!”. 

 

Hermione scoffed under her breath. Bob and Sharon would make a good match. Aggravating naivety and gross enthusiasm all rolled up into one relationship.

 

“I am so excited to be speaking to you today about trials! Everyone has bad days, don’t they? Sometimes we have really bad days. But you know what?”

 

Oh great, so it was going to be that kind of speech. Fantastic.

 

“Being sad because bad things are happening is the opposite of helpful! Does it help you feel better to mope and moan about how awful your life is, and how hard you have it? I don’t think so!”

 

Hermione’s wand itched in the pocket of her robes. It was too bad the entire Auror department was sitting two rows back, because Ginny had taught her a few excellent hexes for situations like this.

 

She bet Sharon wouldn’t look so bouncy with a rhinoceros horn sticking out of her forehead.

 

“There’s an old saying that goes, ‘Those who wish to sing, always find a song.’ It really is that simple. I never have bad days anymore, because I always keep a cheerful song in my back pocket. Whenever sadness is around the corner, I just hum a little song to myself and then I feel better.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. Sure, Sharon, it really was that easy. When the world crumbles around you, when you bury your unborn babies, just sing a song. That’ll fix everything.

 

Sharon just kept talking. Drilling it into them that happiness is good, sadness is bad. Hermione tried to tune her out, but Sharon’s words twisted knives in her side. 

 

“And most of all, when times get tough, I like to remember Dumbledore.”

 

Dumbledore. No, please don’t bring Dumbledore into this. She’d almost been holding it together.

 

“Dumbledore was known to say, ‘Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.’ Every time I fight through my sadness and choose to be happy, I like to think that Dumbledore is looking down at me from the afterlife, feeling so proud.”

 

Hermione blinked back tears. Great, now she was being guilted for not being happy by dead Dumbledore, of all people. 

 

This was so stupid. Let people be sad, for Merlin’s sake. There was nothing unhealthy about mourning. There was nothing unhealthy about being sad sometimes. Sharon was an idiot for saying what she said. If she wouldn’t get suspended for it, how Hermione wouldn’t love to pull her wand on her right this moment. 

 

Oh great, tears. As if today hadn’t already been enough of a heaping pile of dragon dung, her body was going to go ahead and throw on a shovelful of humiliation. Sharon made eye contact, her blue eyes full of sanctimonious pity. Hermione’s magic boiled. Sharon didn’t know. Sharon didn’t know what was happening behind closed bathroom doors. She didn’t know that right at this very moment, Hermione’s never-to-be-born child was bleeding out of her body and leaving her spirit in shambles.

 

Hermione started humming alright, and it wasn’t her favorite song. Her chair vibrated against the stone floor of the Ministry atrium, clattered and shook until Darvis from Magical Maintenance gaped at her and scooted his seat away.

 

She should leave now. Flee from the impending disaster before she did something Sharon would never forgive. But she really didn’t want to. With a deafening roar, her chair trembled and rose inches off the ground. Uncontrolled, furious magic burst forth from somewhere deep in her knotted chest.

 

Then the humming stopped. Hermione would have been afraid to look if she hadn’t been so sickeningly satisfied. She half-expected to see a horn, but it turned out to be even better. 

 

Sharon stood behind the podium, jaw open so wide the white goatee on her chin nearly brushed the wooden surface. Long, brown ears stood at attention at the top of her furry face. A donkey. Hermione had transfigured her into a donkey. The corners of Hermione’s mouth turned up, and she fought to push them down. 

 

Well, there went any progress she might have made on her werewolf rights proposal this week.

 

* * *

  
  
  


“Oh good, you’re home. I just finished making--” Draco stopped where the kitchen tile met the living room carpet. 

 

It smelled like chocolate. Chocolate was good. Hermione made it half-way to the kitchen before two little sets of arms wrapped around her belly and stopped her pursuit of baked goods.

 

“Mummy, Mummy, Daddy made chocolate cake, and he let me lick the bowl!” 

 

“That’s lovely, Scorpious. Is there any left?”

 

“Chowclate!” 

 

Leo had brown smudges on his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. Hermione smiled sadly as she ran her fingers through his chopped-off hair.

 

“Ok, ok, Daddy coming through.” Draco put one hand on each of the boy’s heads and stepped between them. He ran his fingers over Hermione’s cheeks. “Crying again?”

 

Hermione sighed. “Well, you could say that my proposal has been put on hold. I’ve been suspended.”

 

“Suspended?” Draco’s eyes widened.

 

“Yeah. You know, magical harassment and all that.”

 

“Uh-oh. It wasn’t my mother, I hope?”

 

She snorted. “No. Sharon Susanson.”

 

He lifted his eyebrows. “The motivational speaker?”

 

“That’s right. She was making all sorts of assumptions about me, I could just tell. And you know what they say about people who assume…”

 

“Don’t tell me you turned that woman into an--” Draco’s eyes flashed to the boys, who flipped through a quidditch magazine on the living room settee. 

 

Hermoine grinned. “Yep. Into a donkey. And I don’t feel the least bit sorry.” She grabbed a plate out of the kitchen cabinet and marched up to Draco’s two-tired masterpiece. “Now, about that chocolate cake.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> AN: This story is dedicated to my own September baby, may he or she always rest in peace, and to all the women who have ever felt marginalized by the lonely grief that surrounds the unfairly taboo topic of miscarriage. May we all be less ashamed and more empowered, and free to tell our stories.
> 
> P.P.S: There is more to this story, but it may be a while before it gets written. If you are interested in reading on, hit the follow button to be notified.


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